


Feeding the Fever

by EternityCode



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Dehumanization, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Rough Sex, Very Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 03:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17738018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternityCode/pseuds/EternityCode
Summary: It smells like one thousand degrees and a volcano ready to blow when Dean Winchester finishes attaching the ankle chains onto his brother's foot. The look on Sam's face is somewhere between a grimace and a call for murder, Omega eyes bleeding red in the low light. The stench, it reeks of rebellion and defiance; oddly strong for an Omega, even a recently turned one. Dean knows this shouldn't be happening, that he just has to—can only hope to—wait out this period of tragedy. Sam though, as much as his mind's concerned, he's still ninety-eight percent Alpha. And Alphas don't like to be restrained, locked down and treated as lesser than. Before the chains on his hands are attached, he tries to convey somewhere between a plea for his brother and a threat for dignity but when that doesn't work and the cuffs finds its mark, it feels like goddamn torture on Sam's soul.





	Feeding the Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Very Dubious Consent.

It smells like one thousand degrees and a volcano ready to blow when Dean Winchester finishes attaching the ankle chains onto his brother's foot. The look on Sam's face is somewhere between a grimace and a call for murder, Omega eyes bleeding red in the low light. The stench, it reeks of rebellion and defiance; oddly strong for an Omega, even a recently turned one. Dean knows this shouldn't be happening, that he just has to—can only hope to—wait out this period of tragedy. Sam though, as much as his mind's concerned, he's still ninety-eight percent Alpha. And Alphas don't like to be restrained, locked down and treated as lesser than. Before the chains on his hands are attached, he tries to convey somewhere between a plea for his brother and a threat for dignity but when that doesn't work and the cuffs finds its mark, it feels like goddamn torture on Sam's soul.

He lashes out, hands bound too tight and eyes red, knocking Dean sideways but his brother just catches himself and comes right back with that stupid look on his face—absolutely defeat and cowardice—and it's not his color. Dean refuses to say anything and that isn't torture, that's bloody murder. A sound is torn from Sam's throat, all low and Alpha and the beginning high notes of an Omega. It's wounded and it sends shivers down Dean's spine but Dean, big brother Dean just bites the bullet. He hooks the chain onto the deadbolt in the wall. Sam screams, rubbing the metal across his wrists and ankles, the collar around his neck flashing a nasty black; not sleek like the Impala, dull and a death sentence. Dean for all his worth, doesn't stop and Sam hates him for it. Sam's going to die and Dean's leaving the door right open for hell. Don't let the door hit him on the way out.

“Dean,” Sam growls and it's low and unused in his throat. Anger thumps in his veins and rage is going to boil over soon, smothering everything in red and red again but there's something else too, something both Dean and Sam know is coming: the Fever. If Sam can't get through his first Heat, the fever will burn his mind right from his skull. He'll die, one-hundred percent an open casket. It'll be painful and slow and even with the painkillers and everything else, it'll chew right through the barrier and char him from the inside out, keeping his mind reeling when his body is locked beneath. Dean is sending him to die (become a good Bitch) because he can't see pass the truth, and Sam can't accept it. He knows he was assaulted—use the word, dammit—raped, for thirty people to see in that blasted town. The Bitching was successful, Alpha and Omega instincts constantly raging terror within. He's lost weight and mind and losing too much all the same.

Black circles line Dean's eyes when he looks over, but he's looking inches above Sam's head. Cold eyes are dead and the hunch in his shoulder says just as much. He looks like he wants to say something but the words catch in his throat and Sam's reminded of the knots shoved down his own just two days ago. He hopes Dean chokes on it. He hoped he could have just choked and died on that night but he's still here and he's not so far off. He sees Death in every shadow but Sam does not fear, just hates with all of his self-rearranging guts and dry tears. The growl starts in his throat before he can stop himself and Sam desperately needs the fight, if not to beat Dean black and blue, then to get beat black and blue. The frayed nerves and energy, he hates it beyond reason. The provocation falls short and Dean walks from the room—no, flees, that fucking coward.

He smells it, Omega fear on himself and he wants to tear himself from his own skin. It's not right, none of this right. Bitching is illegal but is done is already done. It doesn't matter that Dean shoots up half the town anymore, his brother is still sending him to die, finish what they started. Sam's throat burns and a droplet of sweat falls from his head. He doesn't move where he's scattered and half-heartedly pulls on his chains. Dean says it's for his own safety. Dean is going to learn to regret if he comes out alive. Sam pulls himself closer and breathes, the fire already beginning to burn. The Fever is coming, he's not counting on weeks or even days, he's counting on hours. If someone doesn't fuck him into submission, into the good Omega bitch he's becoming, then he'll die. And Sam, Sam is going to die fighting. They both send him to die.

Having Dean send him though, it's antagonizing.

Sam's throat is burning in three-quarters air and half a cup of salt.

...

Hours later, he's back. Dean holds a plastic water bottle to Sam's face. Sam blinks up, eyes red and dull when he bites the plastic and tugs, spitting it out back onto the cold concrete ground. Water sprays and pools at his knees even though Sam's burning up, needing the substance. The look on Dean's face—frozen in pain and frustration—flickers into something else, something furious and angry for a split second. He quickly reels it back in but Sam sees it, and he needs it. Sam's going down fighting, whoever and whenever. It's a promise to his Alpha instincts and the snarl bubbles into his burning throat once more, low and challenging and full of mockery. It feels like murder. Mind as well act on it, victim or killer. Sam repeats his challenge with the conflicting smell of Omega defiance, Alpha rage and everything in between. It sends jolts up his stomach and he counts on the pain to keep him anchored.

Finally, the words come out harsh and ragged, “should have been you.”

“Two Alpha sons in one family?” Sam whispers, each word barbed with venom and Dean's walking away but he isn't getting off easy. “We both know it should have been you.” The look on Dean's face is blank, too blank and Sam hates his guts for it. The silence is too loud. Sam enjoys every little petty victory he can get and he draws up jagged lines and harsh edges right in Dean's heart. His own carving board for a good reason. Sam spits at Dean's feet, teeth bared as he tugs on the chains, sending rattles and clunks through Dean's heart. Sam's wrists have been bleeding too long now, and the movement only opens another fresh wave of blood, pooling and breaking on the ugly grey ground. Dean inhales slowly and the freckles stands out too much against his skin. His face is pale and bloodless. He's struggling to maintain control.

“Goddamn you, Dean.”

“Bet you were counting on it, Dean!”

“If you weren't such a coward, you and Dad would have Bitched me yourselves.”

Dean stumbles back like he's been struck and stares right back like he can't believe his eyes. Sam's dead serious. Dean opens his mouth to speak but Sam's faster, even through his Fever-addled mind. Every word burns on his throat, is a trouble to spit out but once it's out, it's out and it's goddamn magical. Sam is relentless in all of his angry and all of his sad. He pummels Dean with his words. They all find its mark and he's out for more. He draws blood but finds himself unsatisfied with merely this because it changes nothing, hurting Dean changes absolutely nothing. Dean's still sending him to die and Sam just wants to goddamn die. He won't die a sad Bitch, he won't. He's dying an Alpha. Absolutely not. It's like someone jacks up the volume. It's deafening.

“NOW YOU'RE STANDING THERE ENJOYING THE FREAK SHOW!”

“YOU SICK BASTARD, GO TO HELL!”

“IF YOU LOVED ME SO MUCH, YOU WOULD HAVE PUT A BULLET THROUGH MY BRAIN!”

The silence is cutting.

“That's enough, Sam,” Dean says quietly, trying to gather his control from slipping. Panic and hysteria are only the underlining smokescreen in this now too small room. Alpha rage, red-hot like a branding iron tears and snaps at the air and it catches fire. Both Dean and Sam's eyes are scarlet and decades old and positioned to kill. There is not a single sign of a recently turned Omega (or a brother), his mind doesn't care about body chemistry, just that what is rightfully his has been stolen and tarnished. His pride. His dignity. His future. The beast in his chest roars and if he wasn't ten toes down, dead-bolts, light-bolts and one-hundred percent screwed, he would be down in the dirt, strangling the bastard in front of him. Sam pulls on his restraints, hurting himself more than the steel. He doesn't care.

Dean tries approaching but he snaps out, recoiling with a hiss. It takes a stand off at least four minutes to dissipate and even then, it's always in the air. Sam doesn't fear Dean but he knows he'll be fearing soon, Fever or not. It's Nature's way of giving him the big middle finger and he's not ready to die. Biology gave Alphas strength, leadership and cruelty. They gave the Betas cunning, devious and straight-forward thinking. What they give Omegas though—poison, it's poison—compassion and love, forever slaves to their own inferiority-complex. His string of panic thoughts snap when Dean finally comes to a kneel next to him—he's in range. It's going to be pure bliss and a violent bloom of happiness splatters against Sam's heart. He surges forward, arms braced and bone and metal catch on the side Dean's face, scraping blood and love right off.

When Dean gets up, he throws right back and he doesn't stop coming.

Not once does Sam beg for mercy.

Even when it's a one-way ticket to Wonderland.

He hurts like a Sad Bitch.

...

Consciousness comes in the form of neon dots and black backdrop and empty head space. Sam groans and tries shifting his weight just to get a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. There's a bag of sand in his brain and every time he moves, it comes landsliding into his eyes and mouth. He can't quite feel his legs nor his hands but his mind is wide awake. Sedatives, that's the taste. It's in his bloodstream—god, get it out—so that means the big church bell is about to ring. He's going to hell. The Fever had been a small annoying buzz in the back of his mind but a lock has been picked and when it clicks, the burning catches him and suffocates his air. Dean is nowhere in sight so that must have mean he followed through with his plan. No matter what Sam does, Dean won't let him die. He'll get someone to fuck some sense into him, both figurative and literally. Sam's idea of outlasting the Heat is ludacris, never been done before. Sam wants to try. Dean slams the door in his face. He's sending a rapist down into the basement to save his life.

Sam's mind is still his own and no matter what changes, he knows that he'll be hating for a good portion of his life. His muscles are too tight, like a bow string ready to snap. He snaps out, swearing into the black of the basement. The darkness is supposedly there to calm his nerves and the idea is laughable at best. Sam tries to twist his head in his bonds but needles and knives pinch and pull at his skin. His body is asleep. He urges to it to wake but nothing happens. Sam's dumbfounded. Confusion boils away into more betrayal and rage. Dean, Dean, Dean's going to learn regret. He stinks again, of confused Omega and the anger is the wrong color on him but who is he to tell it to stop. No, Sam will not be passive, he will not be kind. He's going down an Alpha. Keep hands away. Water, ship down.

The newest wave of distress must have been the trigger.

The Fever caresses him, light at first but it becomes firm. More demanding. More aggressive. The dryness in his throat turns to outright pain, the numbness fades into need. Even his sweat is sugary sweet and his body cramps in unwanted pleasure. It realizes there's no pleasure to receive and the message tears right into his mind. He gasps when the first wave of slick breaks and Sam wants to vomit everything back up. There's nothing to vomit. Dean's done his research. He tries moving, struggling but he's bound so tight he can't breathe anymore. The sedatives are being chewed through and he's still burning, his mind heating up. He tries to shift onto his side but the fire follows him. The Alpha red in his eyes flicker and there's a shard of something distinctly gold. Sam swallows painfully, feels the sting in his eyes and closes them. He has to be in control. Sam won't die, dammit.

His brain is fried with blind need and Sam realizes that he can't even fight it. He pants out, wishing he'd taken the water. The futile struggling weakens and his jaws slacken before he falls away, out the other side of reality. Unconsciousness is a bliss but he can still feel the glow of the Fever even through his unresponsive state. There's blackness, whiteness then fire. Sam regrets waking. The need's turns up another notch. At first, it was just a demand but now he knows what he needs. An Alpha. Wrong on so many base levels because he is one. Body chemistry says screw Sam. Body says it's lonely. Sam keens, a broken sound in his throat. Tears are in his eyes and he needs. He can see why Dean says it's pointless to fight it. Turned instincts are deafening as they are blinding. He gasps again and a strangled, pretty sound makes it out.

A hand is run through his hair (doesn't even remember when or how); it's an explosion of hormones and light-sparks.

The grip is demanding as it is gentle, oddly so. Sam blinks through the haze of the Fever of his Heat but he can't recognize anything at all. He doesn't know that the Alpha has sea-green eyes and dark hair and handsome features. Just knows that he's an Alpha. That's good enough for Sam. Sam can't stop himself from begging, wailing into the Alpha's shoulder. Tears are running freely down his cheeks now. He's too embarrassed to say the words and he knows that some Alphas like to torment like that, but his pride still lingers by the door. Sam clenches his teeth in concentration and tries pushing him away. He's like pudding and he practically melts back into the strong hold like he belongs there, a rightful spot meant for him. Half-gold eyes blink out in confusion. He tests the air. Alpha doesn't smell like one-hundred percent arousal. There's guilt.

“Please, Alpha,” Sam begs prettily, eyes wide. His pride takes for the door. The Fever is relentless, crashing into him and dislodging a piece of his mind every time. He keens again and buries his nose into the intoxicating smell of the trench coat; like thunderclouds and old books. Sam's on fire and his Alpha instincts are nowhere to be found. Someone call the Undertaker. He hates his body and mind for it. Hates that he's so empty and needing and if there-isn't-a-cock-in-his-ass-soon, it drive him crazy. He whimpers and that elicits a reaction. The Alpha shutters and his eyes are slightly stained red in the dark. Sam repeats the call again and nuzzles Blue Eyes. The Alpha growls, all low and possessive and strong. Sam shivers and curls in on the Alpha as best as he can. The barrier of clothing is maddening. He should be able to feel more than this. The Fever purrs in agreement. A high whimper falls from his lips and he thrashes in his bonds.

That's all the warning he gets.

His clothes are torn from his body and the sudden cold air hits him harder than drugs. He feels like a fish back in water. It feels right, so goddamn right that it shouldn't be. The ripping sounds are still going and there are firm hands, one pinning him to the ground—as if the chains weren't enough—and the other tearing the fabric clean off his front. Blue eyes are red with arousal, animistic in its quest to meet instinct. Sam nods his head furiously in agreement, he's soaked in slick and sweat and tears. His body aches and burns and he feels himself losing it. Once the first words come, the second words follow and soon it's a floodgate he can't swing shut because god-alpha-please-I-need. It doesn't matter that it doesn't make sense. It matters that it exists. Sam whines and mewls, trying his best to shift his in his restraints. The Alpha rumbles and turns him over until he's ass up, face down. Titanic down. Ice buckets. Melting in the goddamn sun.

“Alpha please,” Sam whines.

“Need,” Sam states.

“Need your k-knot,” Sam clarifies.

“P-please, Alpha, I need-”

There are fingers at his entrance. He tries shoving his ass back but the bonds are so frustrating. He keens at the lack of contact. The Alpha hushes him soothingly—uncommon, very uncommon—and runs a strong hand down his side. It's better than drugs. Omega instincts purrs in agreement and another hit of pheromones comes rushing out. He can feel slick pooling between his legs but his face is already so red, it doesn't even matter. He breathes in the air greedily and it makes the dryness go away. He tries shaking his hips for more contact but the Alpha pins him firm. There's one digit, then two and then all four fingers are coming into his leaking ass. There's no resistance. It feels so good, the burn of friction. The empty is going away but Sam needs more. He needs to empty to die in a ditch. He begs all pretty and pathetic again and there isn't any trace of wrong. It feels right. Pineapples in his brain.

“Dirty little bitch,” the growl is spat out like the Alpha tries hard not to say it.

“Disgusting knot-slut.”

“Born for this, weren't you?”

“Going to fill that cunt up until you're crying.”

Sam nods his head furiously in agreement and gasps when there's an insistent pressure from behind. He squeezes his eyes shut, mouth open and filled with drool. With one easy slide, the Alpha's in and Sam chokes on it. He can feel it all the way from here, the cock spearing his ass open so good, the saliva that rolls and clogs at his throat. He's seeing rainbows and crystal skies. He can't tell if he's choking on dick or choking on saliva anymore, just glows with the flow. Blue Eyes is furious, plowing him from behind like his life depends on it (literally), spitting cutting words once in a while to keep Sam in in the circle of humiliation; joke's on him, Sam's already too far gone. If Sam wasn't gone, he would have tasted some form of underlying guilt through the burning lust and arousal on the Alpha. To hell with feelings, he's feeling too much. Sam's low moan comes up in a ear-piercing scream and as Blue Eyes pulls him back, arching his back against the chains and shaft buried within his ass.

Half-lidded eyes, flushed face.

It hits a spot in him and he freezes up, the air pushed from his lungs. Sam blinks, eyes wide. The Alpha reeks of smug and arrogance now and there's a moment where he's afraid he'll stop. Sam whines, trying to jerk his head back to get back into that delicious zone. Away from the fire and burning. His worries are for nothing. The Alpha shifts, all smooth and strong, grabbing him by the hips. He slams him backwards and Sam gasps out, more tears breaking from his face. The Heat is strong but Alpha's stronger. Once he slams back down, he doesn't stop coming. If there was a bed instead of the improvised mattress, the headboards would be banging into tomorrow. Sam's incoherent but still trying to form words of “please,” and “Alpha,” and “need your knot.” He's somewhat successful until a hand comes up and clamps his mouth shut. Sam runs his tongue over the salty palm and tastes himself.

“Such a good little bitch for me,” the Alpha mummers, hot breath ghosting across the shell of Sam's ear. “You deserve a reward for being so good, don't you?”

Blue Eyes reaches down with his other hand to jerk on Sam's cock before Sam can nod his agreement—strange, that he cares about an Omega's pleasure—thrusting in time with his own rhythm. Thump thump thump, no Sir, what are Morales? Sam whimpers pathetically under the crushing weight, tears and snot pooling into the mattress but finds himself unable to get off. His dick is straining but it refuses to let go and Sam pushes back against the blue-eyed Alpha. There's a wordless plea on his face and the Alpha answers, a low and husky sound in his throat—sends Sam's instincts positively preening—and grabs his neck with both hands, slamming forward one last time, nailing the abused patch of nerves one last time, and Sam writhes, shaking brokenly. The knot catches and it's so big in Sam's mind. There's nothing else. Blank space and ruby red roses. The gush of come is an old friend. The Omega unravels, coming untouched with a silent whisper.

Sam dissolves in his pleasure—voice hoarse and dirty—eyes rolling back in his head, tongue out.

What Dean? He's never felt so good; the lack of air is intoxicating.

Why hadn't he caved sooner?

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, how I have ended up on the wrong side of the bed. How I have fallen so. Dear Lord, pray for my sins because I don't think I can stop. Yea, you're probably wondering how I ended up in this situation—Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics??—and honestly, I have no fucking clue. I thought the animistic aspect was interesting? And then Angst was like “bye bitch, can't relate.” Smut came knocking harder than Death. Or Dean. Or anything. I'm a scatterbrain, nice to meet you. So, honestly this DOES have a plot, believe it or not but I didn't explain jackshit yet. So it's getting marked PWP. But hey! If you'd like me to continue this with more heated scenes and spice it up with some plot (I love my plot) then hit me down in the likes and comments below. It's the currency of self-inflating ego.
> 
> If we can get this to 50 likes, I'll write a follow up.
> 
> Ps. What do you think of this writing style (I know y'all don't like chewing through that too complicated shit especially reading smut so I went dumb dumb mode)?


End file.
